One Last Meal

“He wants a medium-rare steak with fried eggs, a double-stuffed baked potato and fries,” the guard told me. “Understood,” I say. 

It was a fairly common request, steak. Second was lobster and, maybe not so surprisingly, the third thing most inmates wanted was nothing. I guess imminent death makes you lose your appetite. The guard leaves me alone in the kitchen. They’re not supposed to do that, but nobody really cares about rules and procedure here.

I prep the potatoes first. After rinsing all the dirt out, I cover one in oil and poke holes in it. I put it in the oven and move on with the fries. The baked potato will take about an hour, maybe less, but the fries and steak are done fairly quickly. Not like he’s in a hurry, though. After peeling it, I cut it as evenly as possible and completely dry them with napkins. This step is important; you don’t want water in the same pot as hot oil.

I salt the fries, and while I’m at it, I do the same with the steak. It’s a New York Strip, my favorite. The previous inmate had ordered a plate of Fettuccini Alfredo, but he was so nervous that he ended up throwing up the whole thing. That happens a lot when they order pasta, that’s why I ask the guard to go back and tell them that to see if they reconsider. They never do. I wonder if the guard even bothers going back, or if he just waits a bit outside and then comes back. It wouldn’t surprise me.

I used to ask what they did to get here. I guess curiosity got the better of me. But I don’t ask anymore. It’s at least a bit easier to cook for them when you don’t know what exactly it is they did. And someone has to cook.

The fries are ready for their first swim in the oil. A lot of people don’t know this, but it‘s best to cook them in oil twice, the first time at a lower temp and the second one at a higher one. After five minutes, I take them out and let them cool down completely. About forty minutes have passed since I started cooking. Time kinda flies by in this kitchen. It’s probably the opposite for them.

I decide to check up on the baked potato. I poke it with a toothpick to see if it’s done, and it is. I make an oval cut at the top of it and scoop out all the potato carefully so as to not break the skin. I mash it all in a bowl and mix it with milk, cheese, butter, cream, and some salt and pepper. I also chop up some green onions and sprinkle them on top with more cheese. I put it back in the oven.

The guard comes back and asks me how much longer until it’s done. I tell him twenty minutes, give or take. You have to let the steak rest for a bit. He scoffs and leaves me alone again. I remember the time he passed me a note from one of the prisoners. He’d wanted me to poison him so he’d be sent to the infirmary and live for another day. I felt bad for him, so I did. I had to convince the nurse not to turn me up when they inevitably discovered what I’d done. The guard never gave me another note. That inmate died the next day. I made him a hamburger.

It’s time for the steak to hit the grill. I grab the meat thermometer and stick it on the side. I’m not a big fan of it, but once an inmate sent a steak back—they can do that—and I don’t want it happening again. I cook some garlic with butter in a pan to baste it afterwards. The smell of melted butter reminds me of when my dad first taught me how to cook this. He was my inspiration to become a professional chef. I wonder if he’d approve of what I do. I think he would. I flip the steak.

It’s time for the fries to go back in the oil. I turn the heat up and put them in. They start sizzling, quickly gaining a golden brown color. I can hear some guards laughing outside. They’re probably playing cards. I overheard them once betting on how long it would take for the inmate to die on the chair. I guess that’s what you do after watching so many of them die. As a way to deal with everything. Prison changes all of the people in it, guards included.

I check the thermometer and it reads 120°F. Not quite there yet, but it will continue cooking after I take it out of the grill, so I do. The fries are ready as well. I let them dry on a couple of napkins and go take out the baked potato. The cheese on top has melted and now has a  beautiful orange color. It’s been a while since I made one of these, not a lot of prisoners request it.

The food’s smell is strong enough that the guard comes back to the kitchen. He doesn’t have any questions this time. No, this time he just walks over and snacks on some fries. “Damn, you really outdid yourself this time,” he says. “They are not for you,” I reply, as I take them away from him. He looks at me angrily before grabbing another handful of fries and walking out. Maybe he’s always been like this, selfish, unempathetic. Maybe prison doesn’t change these people, maybe it just attracts them.

The time for the eggs has arrived. I pour the butter on the steak, put the pan back on the stove and crack a couple of eggs in it. After sprinkling some salt and pepper I cover it with a lid and let it cook. It shouldn’t take more than a minute, so I start the platting process, though there’s not much I can do there. Prisoners are served their last meal in a plastic, edgeless tray, with five compartments: one for utensils and four for the food. This used to be my favorite part about cooking. The way a chef assembles the food they cooked lets you know everything you need to know about them. Every tiny detail has something to say: the angle the meat is placed tells you their precision; the way french fries are placed speaks as to how patient they are; if the plate isn’t clean, then neither is their workplace. But the only think you can tell from looking at this tray is that a man is about to die.

After taking out the fried eggs and plating them, I call for the guard to take the meal to the inmate. When I first began working here I was told that I could be the one to deliver the food, but I could never bring myself to do it. Look a man in the eye, knowing he’ll be dead in a few hours is just… too much. So I let the guard do it for me. 

He comes in, picks up the tray and, while looking directly at me, grabs another fry.